no chocolate ‘til d20
a group of friends make a sweet pact
—
I have a community in Brooklyn that I miss with a kind of sickness. So when I flew to New York for a friend’s upstate wedding, I knew I needed to gather everyone I could in one place, one concentrated immunoboost shot to carry me through flu season. What I didn’t expect was that on Friday, October 3rd, we’d make a pact I can only assume no friend group has ever made before.
I had texted people from every corner of my life. Ned: the elusive son-of-a-folk-musician-turned-folk-musician himself. Belle: a beacon of positive energy with whom I shared a summer in Finland. Leo and Johunna: a smarter-than-you progressive couple. Nic: a mountain of charisma with a fresh handlebar mustache, grown for a leading role. Gracie: the kind of thoughtful friend who never forgets your birthday (and never forgets you were driving the jet ski when she broke her foot). Ari: a high school friend often described as “a guy who likes everything.” And my closest friend Jordan: a Broadway-bound choreographer whose supermagnet personality makes him thick-as-thieves with just about everyone.
As friends from different walks of life trickled in, I realized that much of my community hadn’t seen each other regularly since I moved away. At first that realization made me sad, but as people mingled, those thoughts dissolved. It wasn’t my job to be the twine connecting everyone; they all had strong communities of their own. And yet, something fastened us together that night, the kind of bond that only grows out of the stupidest, most sincere friendships.
The snowball started when Ari described how incredible it was to drink a Coca-Cola after accidentally going a month without one. That turned into a passionate, if buzzed, campaign to get Jordan to order a Coke and “reallllllly taste how good it is, dude.”
Watching this live persuasion made me ask the group, “What’s something we could all deprive ourselves of that would taste unbelievable when we finally had it again?” A beat passed as people brainstormed.
“What about kombucha?” Ned offered.
“Too easy,” Leo shut down.
“Chocolate chip cookies?” someone tried. Some shallow nods, but not quite it.
Then Jordan, as he is wont to do, blurted loud enough for the whole bar to hear, “All chocolate! All chocolate. Hands in.”
At this command, everyone instantly stacked their hands together like we were about to chant 2-4-6-8 who do we appreciate. Jordan, not realizing what path he was about to send us on, declared, “No chocolate ’til D20.”
—“D20?” —“December 20th.”
And just like that, as we raised our hands in unison and repeated the phrase, a pact was made. This collection of people who shared nothing but their friendship with me had just agreed to abstain from chocolate for the next 78 days.
And we stuck to it. A group chat was formed: NCTD20. We made it through Halloween eating only fruit-flavored candy. We explained to confused family members why we weren’t having chocolate pie at Thanksgiving. We even pushed away the slice of wedding cake presented to us that very weekend. Whenever one of us was offered chocolate, we’d refuse, then immediately report the temptation to our group chat of collective sponsors.
When D20 finally came, the first bite was more than sweet. It was proof that we had, if only briefly, built our own little immunity against the sickness of missing your friends, and what’s sweeter than that.
